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Quote by Mehmet Murat Ildan

“If a candle appears while you are expecting a torch, do not be upset, because then you will break the candle's heart!”

Quote by Mehmet Murat Ildan

Author

Mehmet Murat Ildan
Mehmet Murat Ildan

Mehmet Murat Ildan is a renowned Turkish writer born on May 16, 1965. His works span various literary forms including novels, essays, and poetry, and have gained widespread popularity among readers. more

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“Does a tiny candle want to be a huge torch? It doesn't, because if it were a torch, it wouldn't be at a fine dinner table with red wine and in magnificent candlesticks; it wouldn't be on the desk of a writer working passionately in the mysterious darkness of night; it wouldn't be next to the flowered statues of a temple! The tiny candle wouldn't want to abandon all these small beauties and become a huge torch!”

“I think prayer is a very good practice, Miss Annabelle. It’s something I do daily—a perfect way to share with God our feelings and wishes and heartfelt gratitude." I was relieved that he approved of my plan. His finger rose and rested against the tip of his nose portending additional thoughts on the subject. "I do want you to consider one thing, however. When you offer this prayer of yours, keep in mind that God, the creator of all things including us, has a much grander perspective than the tiny, often self-centered viewpoint we possess here on this Earth. Having His home in the heavens and His all-knowing eye looking down upon us, He perceives things far beyond what we can possibly see. What we assume is a grave disappointment or a terrible tragedy often proves to be a stepping stone to something greater—a necessary moment of sufferable experience in God’s plan for us.”

“Autumn is a cunning muse who steals by degrees my warmth and light. So distracted by her glorious painting of colors, I scarcely realize my losses until the last fiery leaf has fallen to the ground and the final pumpkin shrinks. Autumn departs with a cold kiss, leaving me to suffer the frigid grasp of winter in prolonged nightfall.”

“The first real day of spring is like the first time a boy holds your hand. A flood of skin-tingling warmth consumes you, and everything shines with a fresh, colorful glow, making you forget that anything as cold and harsh as winter ever existed.”

“I searched among her crayons for a color that represented autumn and pulled out an orange-toned crayon, never used. It read “Bittersweet,” and I wondered why that particular name. Autumn was my favorite time of year… I was always ready for the change. I guess some people didn’t see it that way. Some people wanted to cling to summer... I loved both seasons, but I thought no one would ever call spring bittersweet, even though it was just another change, another new cycle, an end to one season and a beginning for another in an endless, never-ending spiral.”

“There is not enough night left for us. We have lost our true instincts for darkness, it’s invitation to spend some time in the proximity of our dreams. Our personal winters are so often accompanied by insomnia: perhaps we’re drawn towards that unique space of intimacy and contemplation, darkness and silence, without really knowing what we’re seeking. Perhaps, after all, we are being urged towards our own comfort. Sleep is not a dead space, but a doorway to a different kind of consciousness – one that is reflective and restorative, full of tangential thought and unexpected insights. In winter, we are invited into a particular mode of sleep: not a regimented eight hours, but a slow ambulatory process in which waking thoughts merge with dreams, and space is made in the blackest hours to repair the fragmented narratives of our days. Yet we are pushing away this innate skill we have for digesting the difficult parts of life.”

“The autumn was a happy time. The crops around the countryside were good, and over at the Forks Falls market the price of tobacco held firm that year. After the long hot summer the first cool days had a clean bright sweetness. Goldenrod grew along the dusty roads, and the sugar cane was ripe and purple. The bus came each day from Cheehaw to carry a few of the younger children to the consolidated school to get an education. Boys hunted foxes in the pinewoods, winter quilts were aired out on the wash lines, and sweet potatoes bedded in the ground with straw against the colder months to come. In the evening, delicate shreds of smoke rose from the chimneys, and the moon was round and orange in the autumn sky. There is no stillness like the quiet of the first cold nights in the fall. Sometimes, late in the night when there was no wind, there could be heard in the town the thin wild whistle of the train that goes through Society City on its way far off to the North.”